


John Compromised

by Sherlockian_grl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Sexual Content, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockian_grl/pseuds/Sherlockian_grl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home after a long night with Lestrade and surprisingly Mycroft to find a special visitor that will throw his life back into blissful chaos after many years of numb sorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am not affiliated in any of the workings of Sherlock, Mark Gatiss/Steven Moffat or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, this is purely a fan-based story for the enjoyment of others. This is my first EVER fan fiction.
> 
> Sorry that this first chapter has no explict goodness.

A crack of sunlight peaked through a chink in the heavy curtains of the top floor window of 221B Baker Street, the frame of the man John Watson’s body tense with the early morning’s nightmare, his face flushed and mashed hard into his pillow and limbs flailing about dangerously.  He no longer dreamed of Afghanistan, no, it was more heart shattering than the gruesome battle field. He was dreaming of his late best friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes, he always dreamed of him. Three years before, the consulting detective had jumped to his death from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. John didn’t know why, but he was haunted by the blood that washed the streets below and the messed up face that once held the unique alien-like beauty of Sherlock and worst of all the emptiness that Sherlock had left him in, the emptiness that he hadn’t felt since before he met the insanely genius man.

John woke, lying in his bed, it was an hour before his alarm to wake up went off, he lay there wishing, just wishing that it was the sound of a violin in the early hours of the morning, the violin he used to complain about constantly. Decided that the longer he stayed in bed contemplating the more he’d sink into the emptiness that was threatening to consume him entirely, he got up and trudged dejectedly to the shower. Dressed in the morbid clothes that he always wore, he skipped breakfast as he had taken the habit in doing and wandered down to the tube station, not bearing to give even a glance at the cabs that roamed the streets, too many memories attached. Even the tube had its memories but only the one, John sat back and remembered the time that Sherlock had strode into the flat, blood splattered his crisp white shirt and face, harpoon in hand and announcing that it was tedious. John lent against the back of the seat and took a deep breath, he missed Sherlock, and he always missed him.

oOo

After work John went to the pub and sulked over a pint. On his second drink, DI Lestrade entered the pub, looking for a spot to sit, John was quick to duck his head, but not quick enough, Lestrade had spotted him and was now wading through the crowd towards John with a stupid grin on his face.

‘Shit’ was all that John muttered before he straightened up and plastered on – what he hoped was – a convincing smile.

‘John! Long-time no see mate’ exclaimed the DI, clapping John the back, ‘How’re ya doing? I haven’t seen you in what three years?’

‘I’m just fine thank you’ John replied politely, ‘and yes it was three years ago that I last saw you’ _at the funeral,_ John didn’t say the last bit, it was too painful and had winced at the contact of Greg Lestrade’s hand. ‘And yourself, how’re you doing?’ John didn’t really care; he just wanted to mope over his piss.

‘Very well thank you’ Lestrade beamed, oblivious to the discomfort that John was in. ‘Mycroft finally asked me out on a date, about a week ago, in fact he was going to meet me here tonight’.

This shocked John immensely, enough to knock the numb pain away for a little bit, ‘What, you and Mycroft? What about your wife and since when does Mycroft, the British Government himself, lower himself down to entering a pub?’

John never thought Lestrade a man to play for the other team and thought that either of the Holmes brothers would be interested in anyone that was ‘ordinary’.

‘Yes, well _she_ ran off with the PE teacher and took the kids, I have no visitation rights at all because of my line of work, so I swore off women and you really can’t call either of the Holmes brothers men, I’m not even sure if they’re human at all’ said Lestrade, who was just noticing the expression that John was pulling.

John’s face was contorting into a painful grimace, his breath becoming shallow, one hand clutching his leg and the other scrabbling at his chest; he was having an anxiety attack, the psychosomatic pain shooting through his body causing John to double over and tears to build in the corner of his eyes.

 ‘Oh John, I’m so sorry’ whispered Lestrade, putting a sympathetic and an apologetic arm around John, giving his shoulders a tight squeeze, ‘I didn’t know you were still… sensitive’. It took Lestrade a minute to think of the right word.

‘It’s fine’ John croaked, sniffing back a sob ‘I’m being silly’.

oOo

A few hours after that outburst of emotion, John was stumbling back to his flat, well sloshed, with Lestrade and Mycroft on either side of him, holding him up. Mycroft did offer to have John driven the short distance but John had burst into racking sobs when they neared the sleek car with black tinted windows, so he resigned to hobbling under John’s weight with Lestrade.

‘I hate legwork’ muttered Mycroft, as John broke into a mournful song that complimented the tears running down his cheeks and splattering his cable knit jumper and the snot streaming over his lips disgustingly.

‘Yes I know’ murmured the DI ‘I’ll make it up to you when we get back to your place’.

‘I like the sound of that’ smiled Mycroft devilishly as they stooped up the steps of 221, he fished the keys out of John’s pocket and placed them into the lock.

‘I don’t want to know’ moaned John sluggishly knocking the two men’s arms away and stumbling to the door, slumping against it in agony, ‘Damn this fucking leg and damn my fucking brain’ yelled John tensely to the street but intending it to be to himself.

Mycroft furtively looked up to the parlour window a frown tugging at his lips gently, tugging his phone out of his pocket, he quickly sent two texts and replaced his phone to his waistcoat pocket.

 _Mrs Hudson, please come out and take john for some tea and biscuits, do not under any circumstances tell John about what’s upstairs. I need to inform Gregory first -_ MH

‘I just sent Mrs Hudson a text, John when she comes out of her flat she’ll take you for a cup of tea, you need it and Gregory I need a quick word before we take John to bed’ Said Mycroft in a tone that warned that no questions were to be asked.


	2. Chapter 2

Sitting at Mrs Hudson’s small kitchen table, John was wondering what was happening between everyone, there was something going on and it seemed everyone but him knew about it, he sat in silence clutching his mug as he let what just happened.

oOo

Mrs Hudson came bustling out of her flat a worried frown set her face. ‘Oh dear, what’s happened this time?’ she gushed in a soft voice.

‘It wasn’t a very good day, the way I see it, what with how much he had downed tonight’ whispered Lestrade sadly ‘ I think I made it worse, I didn’t mind my tongue’.

‘It’s quite alright dear, it doesn’t take much to set him off these days, he’s very fragile’ she glanced at Mycroft then up to the ceiling to were the parlour of 221B sat above. ‘Right’ she said cheerily, ‘Come in John, you’re cup of tea and favourite biscuits are lying in wait.

The last thing John saw of Lestrade and Mycroft for ten minutes was Mycroft placing a hand on the DI’s shoulder and steering him towards the stairwell, as Mrs Hudson softly shut the door.

oOo

Glancing at the ceiling he can hear foot falls in his flat and muffled voices. When the door of Mrs Hudson’s flat opened again, John had just finished the last mouthful of biscuit and the last swig of tea. Lestrade wandered in first, his face as white as a sheet.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost’ said John breaking into a long forgotten smile.

‘You could say that’ whispered Lestrade quietly, sitting down slowly on the sofa, rubbing his face in his hands.

‘Alright now John’ said Mycroft glancing at Lestrade with a worried look, then back at John with a small smile, ‘time for you to go to bed’.

‘Good idea’ yawned John, stretching his arms above his head; he stumbled when he took a step towards the door.

‘I insist that I and Gregory help you’ said Mycroft catching John by the arm and so they set off together up the stairs to flat 221B.

When they reached the door, Mycroft held the door handle, John looked between the two nervous faces looking at him and he found himself reaching his breaking point.

‘What is going on?’ he asked his voice full of steel, ‘what is it that everyone is allowed to know about except me?’ After that tea John’s head had felt a lot clearer and he was suspiciously looking at Mycroft.

‘Okay John, I just want to say is when I open this door for you not to, how do you say, freak out’ Mycroft said seriously, turning the knob.

‘What? Where you two shagging in my flat and didn’t clean u-’ John didn’t finish his sentence as the door creaked open, the lean frame of Sherlock Holmes was standing awkwardly by the sofa, he looked up from his hands, eyes making contact with John’s. John just stared at Sherlock, mouth open and his body quivering.

‘Sherlock, is that you? Or am I just having a crazy dream?’ John asked dumbly.

Sherlock flashed a soft smile ‘Yes John’, John flinched at the deep baritone, his face was drawn into a deeply hurt and confused pose, Sherlock’s smile fell and he adverted his eyes guiltily. ‘I’m sorry John, I didn’t mean to to take so lo-‘ _WHOMP!_ John now nursing his throbbing hand as he had quickly filled the space between him and Sherlock and through a strong punch to his face.

‘You bastard!’ yelled John, tears resumed their falliing ‘you had me believe you were dead! Why?’

‘It was a matter of Mrs Hudson’s, Lestrade’s and your safety, I couldn’t have told you, I had to make it believable. He threatened to kill all of those I cared about, especially you’ muttered Sherlock, clutching his cheek.

John stood there in stony silence then looked at the ground, ‘why three years?’ mumbled John, ‘what took so long?’

‘I had to eradicate Moriarty’s circle, I had helped Mycroft in the search and I had followed up on Mrs Hudson at the graveyard to make sure she looked after you and to make sure she didn’t get rid of my stuff’ He said the last part of the sentence with a smile.

‘Oh okay, well I’m tired I think I will be going to bed now’ he murmed, looking over his shoulder where Mycroft and Lestrade had tense faces ‘goodnight Greg, Mycroft’ then back to Sherlock ‘We’ll talk about this tomorrow, I haven’t got work so we have all day’ and with that he made his way up to his bed for yet another restless nights sleep.

oOo

John woke with a groan, he was hungover and he had the strangest dream, in the dream Sherlock was here, he was in the flat when he returned after a night of boozing with DI Lestrade and Sherlock’s older brother, he had punched Sherlock and yelled at him for lying and pretending to be dead. John thought Sherlock can’t be alive, he saw Sherlock jump from that rooftop, he saw the mangled body on the foot path, he was at the funeral, he buried his friend.

John felt very warm and comfortable, except the pounding in his head, his eyes then flew open, the hangover completely forgotten, there was someone in his bed, long pale arms holding him, a hand on his chest and one at his hip. John noticed after a few seconds of contemplation that they weren’t the fingers of a woman that he possibly could have picked up last night, god only knows he was that drunk, but these fingers were familiar, he knew those fingers. Slowly Johns eyes follow the arm connected to those hands , turning his head, he found the dark curls, sharp cheekbones of Sherlock Holmes, his Sherlock Holme. John concluded, by the blossoming bruise on sherlocks cheek that last night that wasn’t a dream.

‘Sherlock?’ John croaked, his voice hoarse with sleep and something else, John must’ve screamed last night in his sleep. Sherlock lifted his head when he heard his name said eyes fluttering open to set on John’s wide eyes.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting’ whispered Sherlock softly and tone of endearment.

‘How do I know you’re real?’

Sherlock moved the hand resting on John’s hip up to his face, brushing the hair out of his face, then holding his face, pulling his face closer and kissed him, it was a soft and quick brush of lips. ‘I missed you’ Sherlock gruffly ‘What would I do without my blogger?’

‘Okay’ breathed John, eyes wide with shock, ‘you’re real’.

After a few moments John snapped out of whatever cloud he was floating on with the fairies, he felt the flush of anger tint his face, his features contorting into a deep rage. ‘What the fuck is your problem? You jump off a roof, make me believe you were dead for three fucking years and you think that you can not only slip back into my life, but into my bed as well?’ John yanked Sherlock’s arm s away from him as he leapt out of bed, then noticed that he wasn’t wearing anything but his pants.

‘Referring to why I faked my death and for three years I have already told you, Moriarty threatened to kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if I didn’t die and I had spent the past three years tracking down leads to his criminal web with Mycroft’ Said Sherlock calmly ‘and as to why I’m in your bed is because you had a nightmare, you were screaming, so I decided to hold you and comfort you if you were to wake up’. Sherlock looked down at his hands that were lying in his lap, the colour tinting his cheeks.    

 When Sherlock looked up again, John’s face was frozen with the soft _oh_ he had uttered still on his lips, he was shocked that Sherlock was being so caring, the three years away from John must have changed him, John wasn’t sure if it was for the better or worse yet.  His body starting to thaw, John strode back to the bed and scooped Sherlock in his arms and embraced him, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck, ‘Thank you ‘whispered John, lightly brushing hip lips against Sherlock’s ear, Sherlock shuddered at the contact, but it wasn’t out of repulsion, John knew that because Sherlock had inched himself closer and drew his arms around John tightly.

‘I’m sorry’ Sherlock murmured his voice husky with emotion, ‘if I could show you how desperate I wanted you back in my life I would, please John, what can I do for you?’ Sherlock pulled away from John’s arms to look into his face, that face that expresses so much. John’s eyes were dark, his body had gone tense, he was thinking.

‘You could ask me on a date’ smiled John, ‘then see where it could lead to’. He made eye contact with Sherlock, it was sort of a joke, but he couldn’t deny that he hoped that Sherlock would say yes.

John always lied to himself about Sherlock, before the Saint Bart’s Hospital incident with Moriarty and Sherlock, before all this mess, John would correct whoever thought he was gay, or in a relationship with Sherlock, until he met Sherlock he thought he was straight; he still is, sort of, but Sherlock is different, he was all angles and lines, being masculine and feminine at the same time, but his looks were only a minor factor in his attraction to Sherlock. Sherlock made John feel special, even when Sherlock was in a mood and was shooting off insults in anyone’s direction; Sherlock always looked fondly at John whenever he compliments Sherlock’s work or when he gets something right when Sherlock asks for his opinions and deductions. These looks made John’s heart glow and his pupils to dilate with pleasure. Only John could get Sherlock to eat during a case if though it was usually achieved with difficulty, _too many nights where John would chase Sherlock with a plate of food and a fork loaded with food._   John now that he thinks about it, since he believed he lost someone incredibly dear to him, there were so many things he should have said and done that he didn’t before, he loves Sherlock and he quite happily yell that from the rooftops and it would seem that even Sherlock has given into a mutual attraction towards John, if John was to go by that kiss.

‘Sounds appropriate’ Sherlock nods his approval ‘Angelo’s?’

‘Fantastic plan’ John grinned as he walked to bathroom to have a shower.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr  
> Main Blog: baconandmeggs96.tumblr.com  
> Fic Prompt Blog: sherlockiangrl96.tumblr.com


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